


Did We Get It?

by verucasalt123



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety, Caretaker Sam, Concussions, Explicit Language, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, POV Sam Winchester, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:59:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verucasalt123/pseuds/verucasalt123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the following anonymous prompt at Round 6 of the hoodie_time comment fic meme: <i>Dean gets thrown into hard objects a lot, right? So, Dean has a concussion. Make it realistic.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Did We Get It?

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted with desperately needed grammar corrections.

Another salt and burn, simple, right? No. Of course not. When was anything simple for us? Never. Not fucking ever. I was about fourteen seconds from torching the bones before Dean got knocked into a goddamn gravestone, head first, by the restless spirit we were trying to get rid of. 

Again.

He was always getting knocked into something. My brother hit his head more often than a nun says a rosary. Christ. And sure, I know, I got choked every freaking time something with hands that could grab a neck showed up, but that wasn’t any big deal. Honestly, a couple of bruises that went away in a few days, nothing to worry about long term.

All right, fourteen seconds, bones were burned, spirit was gone. Dean was still down for the count. 

“Dean. Dean!” I shook his shoulder, and after no response was forthcoming, I slapped the shit out of him. Did it make things worse? Hell if I knew, but it woke him up.

“Sammy. What happened? Did we get it?”

“Yeah, we got it. We got it, man. It’s done.”

“My head…head hurrtttssss.”

“Let’s just get you back to the motel, all right? Can you get up?”

“My legs don’t hurt, bitch, yeah, I can get up.” And yeah, he could. He stood up, weaving, eyes unfocused. “I’m fine. Just need a Tylenol or a drink or something.”

Concussion, I thought, though I wasn’t sure yet. I felt the side of his head that had hit the marble, and yeah, there was a knot there, I’d just have to wait until we got to a place where I could evaluate his symptoms. Law school, what a fucking joke, I would have passed out of med school with my eyes closed. Forget it, that was done, no time to think about stupid shit like school now. 

I insisted on driving back to the motel and clue number one, Dean didn’t argue with me. 

Surprisingly, once we got back, he didn’t even try to lie to me, no _“I’m fine, Sam, let me sleep it off”_. Instead, he told me that I was blurry. Well, to be more accurate, he _asked_ , "Why are you so blurry?". 

I got him down to just boxers and a tshirt and propped him up in bed. Yeah, right, keeping him awake... that wasn’t strictly necessary, I knew that, logically. There was no way to keep the habit from bubbling back up, remembering the days when we were younger, our Dad waking up whichever one of us had been struck in the head every hour or so, and one or the other of us doing the same to him. 

I had to leave him alone long enough to go to the ice machine outside; it only took two minutes or so, but still too long for my preference. Back to the room, wrap the ice in a crappy bleached out hand-towel. I handed it to him, pointing out the spot where the knot was. “Keep it there until I tell you.”

“It’s cold”, he whined. _Whined_.

“Yeah, that’s because it’s ice, dumbass. Ice is cold.”

“What happened? Did something hit me in the head?”

OK, so he didn’t remember. Clue number three.

“Spirit knocked you against a fucking gravestone before I could burn the bones. Sorry.”

“Not your fault, Sammy. Spirits do that kind of shit. Spirits are dicks.”

“I know. Just hold the ice where I showed you. Fifteen more minutes, okay?”

“But it’s cold.”

Repetition. Another clue. Fucking concussion. Goddamnit.

“It’s ice, Dean.”

“Right. Ice. Cold.” Quiet, just for a moment. Then the last piece fell into place. “I think I’m gonna puke, Sam.”

As fast as I could, I got the plastic trash bin over to him, and just in time, too, because his bacon cheeseburger and pie from earlier in the day were exiting his body in a not so pleasant way.

Yeah. Vomiting. Right. So, concussion. Definitely. Again.

Sometimes I worried about Dean being diagnosed with pugilistic dementia before he turned thirty. I could tell people at a hospital that he was a boxer. No one would doubt it. 

Right now, though, observation was my top priority. I obviously didn’t want to take him to a hospital, on account of us walking around with fake IDs and fake health insurance and fake _everything else_. Also, because he’d bitch and complain and probably try to land a pathetically uncoordinated punch to my jaw if I told him we were going to a hospital. Which would just be embarrassing, if he even managed to remember it. But I’d remember it, and I’d be embarrassed for him, so that would suck too.

“Did we get it? The spirit?”

He didn’t remember. Fuck fuck fuck. I already knew, but this was confirmation. Damn it. 

“Yeah, we got it.”

“My head hurts. Did you give me this ice? It’s cold.”

“Ice is cold, Dean. It’s fucking ice. You can take it off now, though. It’s all right.”

He dropped the towel onto the bed, and I moved it quickly to the sink on the other side of the room. 

God, I didn’t want to take him to the hospital. No hospital, unless I was really really sure I had to. But I’d cared for a concussed Dean more times than I could count, so I could handle this. 

'Cumulative symptoms', my brain supplied helpfully. Shut up. He was fine. He was going to be fine. 

I filled the wet hand towel with fresh ice. “Hold it on there again, same spot.”

“Where? What spot?”

Fuck, Jesus fuck, this one was bad. Cumulative symptoms. I already told you to shut up, _cumulative symptoms_. Did you think I was kidding? Because I wasn’t. 

“Here”, I said, guiding his hand with the stupid towel full of stupid ice back to the stupid knot on his head. “Right here. Just for a few minutes.”

“Did I hit my head?”

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. “It was the spirit, Dean. It knocked your head on a gravestone. You’ll be fine.”

Another half an hour. He only puked two more times. Not so bad. Probably. 

After a few years away, I thought maybe my caretaking skills would have eroded at least slightly. They hadn’t. There was something…yeah, I wasn’t meant to be away. I was meant for this. Salting and burning. Caring for concussions. Hunting. I swallowed the bitterness. 

The next day, Dean was still a little wobbly, a little confused. The next week, ten days maybe, he was still complaining about a headache. Despite the unlabeled narcotics in our med kit, he insisted Tylenol was sufficient. I resisted the urge to wake him up while he was sleeping. He needed rest more than anything else. Our credit cards were getting suspicious, so when I knew he was really asleep, I went out to hustle pool or darts so we could pay for a few more days of food and our motel room. He’d be pissed if he found out, but that was fine. He could be angry, after he got better. He could break my nose after he got better for all I cared. 

Just as long as he got better. 

Until the next time, anyway.


End file.
